Fleeting Glimpses
by KMREE
Summary: Random meetings between Anthony and Edith, post S3E3
1. Chapter 1

He had done his best to avoid her whenever possible since that disastrous day he had thrown her heart, and all hope of happiness, away. Not that he wanted to avoid her. If anything he wanted to throw himself at her feet and beg her forgiveness for being the pathetic coward he had always secretly believed himself to be. It wasn't that hard. Social invitations were non-existent since he had committed the unforgivable _faux pas_ of leaving an Earl's daughter at the altar. Even so, he kept to his estate on the few occasions he found himself in Yorkshire, sending servants to the village when necessary, and never driving out in his car. He couldn't bear the memories that it would revive anyway.

However, despite his best efforts, here she was, standing clearly in front of him giving him no chance to slip away and pretend he had not seen her. He stayed away from the county as much as possible, abroad more often than not. But the problem with leaving Locksley was that the only exit was via Downton train station; which is how he came to be face to face with the loveliest creature ever to grace the Earth. The woman who he had been moments away from making his wife.

'Good afternoon, Sir Anthony.' The voice broke through his reverie. Ever the gentleman, he automatically raised his hat and replied in kind. And this time he was the one who had to watch as the love of his life walked away.


	2. Chapter 2

He could have avoided it of course. Barely a matter of weeks after leaving the Earl's middle daughter at the altar, few would expect him to attend the funeral of the youngest. But he felt it was his duty, as well as his own desire, to pay his respects in person to the poor young woman. Sybil Crawley had always seemed such a lively, vivacious young lady. The idea that she had died in the prime of her life with all the promise of a happy future before her seemed incredible.

He of all people could understand who dangerous childbirth was, and how a seemingly healthy young woman could suddenly be snatched by death. He had watched it happen to his own wife after all. Year upon year of disappointments for them both, then the final pregnancy that had sapped Maud's health until she was in no fit state to face the last trial which claimed both lives, and took all his hopes of a family and heir from him in one fell swoop.

He didn't want to make a scene or cause any discomfort for her or her family though so he stayed away from the service, and at a distance in the churchyard. The family were naturally distraught. _No-one thinks of death when they are that young, and no parent should ever have to outlive a child, _he thought. Even though his son had barely survived a few hours, he felt the pain of Sybil's parents.

Then he saw her. Even in mourning with the signs of grief clearly visible, she was beautiful. Nothing could detract from her beauty for him. That came from within her. A kindness of heart and purity of spirit that shone through, despite the unhappy circumstances.

Once again, like so many times over the past few weeks, he berated himself for throwing away the best thing that had ever happened to him. Although, just as quickly, he stopped himself. She was most certainly the best thing that had happened, or could ever happen, to an old codger like himself, but he was certain she had a lifetime of happiness ahead of her with someone who deserved her. Concentrating on this final thought he found the strength to tear himself away from her, leaving her once more in the church at Downton.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sorry, bit of confusion with this story as I wanted to slot another chapter in between the first two. So this is now chapter 3, and the new chapter is chapter 2. Thank you to everyone who has read and/or reviewed. I'm sticking to short scenes at the moment until I build up the courage (and inspiration!) to write something with an actual plot!_

He'd never liked London. At heart he was far happier on his Yorkshire estate than in some grand society salon. But duty calls, even for him occasionally. The regimental dinner had been bearable of course. He actually enjoyed it on some level. But when several of his fellow officers had insisted on continuing the evening with drinks at the Criterion, he had tried to bow out. Unfortunately they were having none of it, which is how he found himself now, late at night, firmly ensconced in the Long Bar of the Criterion Restaurant in Piccadilly.

He had been here before, of course, back in the 1890s. Although now it had taken on a new lease of life as jazz and the literary set made themselves at home. Still, it was a pleasant place, if not quite the one he would choose, although the fashions took a little getting used to. He had been avoiding social gatherings for too long it would seem. Having come of age in the last quarter of the nineteenth century he was far more accustomed to seeing ladies in bustles and floor-length gowns than the rather more revealing fashions of the day. He was determinedly trying not to notice just such a dress on a young woman who had just appeared at the top of the staircase. Everything these days reminded him of her, even two years later. She was probably (hopefully) married by now to someone far more deserving and age-appropriate than he was. He turned back to his companions as the goddess in the green dress swept past him, heading to a table further back in the restaurant.

He was getting old, he noted sadly. Too old to be up past midnight surrounded by bright, young things in a restaurant echoing with chinking glasses and loud laughter. One laugh in particular that he couldn't seem to ignore. Foolish old man imagining things, he chastised himself. Although curiosity got the better of him and he turned to locate its source. She was seated near the back of the restaurant, away from the bar and prying eyes. He saw her and was suddenly transported back to that fateful day nearly two years past. Fool. This is what you wanted for her, remember? This is what you left her for. The man with her was not what he would have imagined for her. If anything, he looked a younger version of Anthony himself. But younger, that was the main point. And she seemed happy – even he could see that however much he wished it wasn't true.

He turned back to his companions. One who had noticed his interest couldn't help but fulfil his unspoken curiosity. 'Michael Gregson,' he said, 'a newspaper man, though admittedly not as bad as some of them so we shouldn't hold that against him. As for the woman with him, I couldn't tell you. Apart from the fact that she is most definitely _not _his wife' he finished chuckling. New world, eh?'

_Oh Edith, what have you done. This isn't what I wanted for you. _


	4. Chapter 4

After the last few years spent drifting around the continent, he seemed to have found a peace of sorts. Not in France which for him would forever carry the memory of those years of destruction. Nor in Italy, which would forever be tainted with imaginings of the honeymoon that was not meant to be.

He had come to terms with what his life was meant to be, and could only wish the very best for his sweet one – wherever, and with whomever, she was now.

But a new era was dawning in Europe. An epoch for youth, and invention and a new way of life that he could never hope to be part of. His time was over – he should have understood that many years ago.

But still, it was nice to return to one's own country once in a while. Standing amidst the bustle of Mayfair, watching the comings and goings of this new generation, he couldn't help but feel a nostalgic pang for his own long-fled youth.

One simple reminder of his age would be the very fact that he barely recognised a single shop in his vicinity. So much had changed since the war and his extended absence. He was currently standing on the pavement outside a ladies' dress salon. His sister and niece had been in raptures about the new designer, Norman Hartnell, and from the look of the displays he could understand their enthusiasm to a certain extent.

Although no wedding gown could ever compare to hers. A vision in silk and satin. So full of joy, hope and love. And so deserving of someone so much better than him.

He started away from the salon, heading to his original destination – his club – just as the door to the street swung open to reveal his nightmare and dream in one. The Countess of Grantham followed by Lady Mary and his own angel, Lady Edith Crawley.

Although not Lady Edith Crawley for much longer, by the look of the huge number of boxes and bags that the assistants were happily piling into the waiting car.

Only an impending wedding and trousseau could warrant such extravagance, even for the daughter of an Earl.

Luckily in their excitement none of the ladies had spotted him standing to one side, so he quietly slipped away. He would not risk spoiling the obvious happiness of the day for her. Not now that it was so very clear that he had been right.

_But we were going to be so happy._ She had said it so plaintively that it had near broke his heart and his resolve. He had prayed that she would be happy, and it seemed as though that prayer had finally come true for his dearest darling.

_Due to JF's lack of haste in bringing about more DA (anyone else think there should be two series a year?), not to mention a complete lack of all things Anthony-related in the last season, we are firmly into AU. Read as you will but the intention here is that it is Mary's wedding to (insert suitor of choice) about to be celebrated. Hartnell did open his first salon in Mayfair in 1923 – although a few years away from gaining world-wide recognition as designer of choice to royalty, he probably would have been famous enough to design the dress for Mary's second wedding at least. _


	5. Chapter 5

It was surprisingly easy to continue with life in Yorkshire. He had never been much of a social butterfly but had become even more of a recluse after the failed wedding, dedicating more time than ever to his tenants and his books.

He kept to his estate and his library, never venturing far enough that he might risk meeting someone. Well, her, at least.

He had however, with some nudging from his staff who felt he spent too much time pondering his mistakes at home, finally persuaded himself to make the trip into Ripon to personally oversee the loading and transport of some of his new farming equipment thinking that he was in no danger here, mid-week.

As usual, like with so many things in life, he was completely mistaken. He saw her so often in his imagination that he wasn't even sure that it was her at first.

But yes it was her, a little older perhaps. Far more confident and self-assured than he had ever seen her, even during their engagement. And very happy. The reason for such happiness was evident as she strolled down the street in Ripon.

Surely it can't have been so long since he saw her in Mayfair buying her wedding dress. A second dress for her, though only a first marriage thanks to his cowardice.

He had seen her in London after one of his visits to the continent, but he could have sworn it had been no more than two years ago. Yet here she was, with a beautiful miniature version of herself in tow.

The child seemed closer to three than two, although he must admit he was no great expert at judging children's ages. The one child of his own that had come into the world living had only survived a few hours.

Watching the pair from a distance Anthony couldn't help but feel a pang of despair at what he had given up. That could have been his child if he had gone through with the wedding.

But that was nonsense of course. The very reason he had walked away from her was because he couldn't give her that life. He was a pathetic cripple and an old man. A fact that she would have come to know and despise him for in time.

He sighed and sadly turned away from the sight of mother and child together. At least she had achieved everything he had prayed she would have in time. A husband, a child and a happy life that would never have been hers if he hadn't had had the courage to let her go.


	6. Chapter 6

One is always told not to second-guess decisions once they have been made. To not regret the could-haves, the maybes and the might-have-beens. Not that she could say she regretted the path her life had taken. While she certainly wished that Michael were here, still alive and married to her, she couldn't regret Marigold. She wouldn't wish her life over again.

But there were wisps of regret. Musings of what-might-have-been and considerations of how her life might be different if she had been able to leave her daughter in Switzerland, if she hadn't stayed that night in London, if she had never written that letter to _The Times._ That was when her life had truly taken a diversion. If she had to pinpoint one moment in her life, one pivotal choice that had put her firmly on the path that led to her present life - it would have been that.

Although, of course, she had only written that letter in a moment of emotional turmoil. An attempt to have her voice heard at last, and to begin to heal the great wound that had been torn into her soul that day in the church, watching him walk away.

She didn't have it in her to blame him. She never had. Not even in those horrible days after he had left and she felt so bereft of love and friendship that she could hardly contemplate living. Strange that he had once had the power to make her feel like that. He had felt like her whole life, and reason for being in those days. Throughout their early courtship, the long days of the war, and the time after.

Even after Michael and with Marigold by her side, finally at Downton, she idly wondered where he was and what he was doing. No news came out of Locksley, or - if it did - she was shielded from it. She had only heard the news after over-hearing it in the village. Perhaps no-one intended on telling her, not that anything could be kept a secret for long in this place. She worried every day about someone finding out about Marigold for that very reason.

Edith could hardly imagine what her life would be today if he had stayed, honoured his promise and married her. Nearly ten-years married and, perhaps, with several children. A strange thought, especially considering how desperately she had wanted that life for so long. Now Marigold was her life, and the dreams of the life she had been so certain she had wanted once upon a time now lay at her feet - a final conclusion to any daydreaming musings she occasionally entertained concluded in the few words carved in stone.

_Anthony William Strallan_

_1865-1931_

_Beloved husband - reunited in death_

Despite living in such close proximity to one another over the past years, they had hardly ever seen each other again, not to her knowledge anyway. Not since that one awkward encounter at the train station when she had barely acknowledged him. Edith wished in a way she had had the opportunity to see him again. So as to have another memory to replace that glimpse of him as he hurried away from her, running back outside leaving her at the altar. She wanted to be able to remember him in a better way. The first concert he had taken to her, making her feel for once superior to Mary, or his face in profile on one of their drives in the halcyon days before the war. Just to have a sense of closure, to know that he had made the right decision for the both of them, to know he had been happy, or at least content, after leaving her. But there had been nothing, and now there was no chance of that. She walked determinedly away from the grave, not giving it a backward glance. After all, he hadn't done so for her.


End file.
